New York is like Europe without the history. It is so defiant. So, unto itself. Sometimes, here, I feel like Pinocchio slowly growing a tail. Not always, though. I’m staying at a woman’s house who I’ve never met. I’ve slept on her pillow and walked around in her towel. If her things tell her story, she appears defiant and unto herself. And so are women, by their very nature, perceived or imagined, the very thing that make us men. If only we knew what that meant.
